


No Cure (for Curiosity)

by Moontintedtulips



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, M/M, Minor Allison Argent/Lydia Martin, Minor Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-19 20:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8224135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moontintedtulips/pseuds/Moontintedtulips
Summary: The thing is, Derek meant what he said. If Stiles says it doesn’t matter, it shouldn’t matter. Derek is a respectful person who won’t force Stiles to talk about something that clearly makes him uncomfortable. 
   That doesn’t stop it from eating at him, though. In which Derek fights monsters and his own feelings, and can’t stop wondering about Stiles’s name.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the fantastic [emylisis](http://emylisis.tumblr.com/) for both being an excellent and patient beta, and for also inspiring this fic by sending me a message that was "too dumb for even us to make an au out of" which, clearly, I took as a challenge.

“What is your first name, anyway?”

It’s out of Derek’s mouth before he really thinks about it. It’s late, they’re tramping through the woods back to Stiles’s jeep, and they’ve been talking about the power of names for a full week in the wake of the strange control a coven of witches has been exerting over the town. After failing to broker any kind of truce, he and Stiles (mostly Stiles) banished the coven to an alternate dimension; this is, according to Deaton, the only way to deal with them without killing them, although Derek’s still not sure he’s buying that. Regardless, they’d run out of time and options, and as Derek and Stiles were the only ones immune to the witches’ spells—Stiles’s name hidden too deep in his head and Scott’s heart to pry out, and Derek’s name having, apparently, deep roots in the land—it had fallen to them. Banishing six women to another dimension is easier than Derek expected, requiring iron, sulfur, powdered hydrangea blossoms, and a metric tonne of belief from Stiles while Derek held them off. Now they’re trudging back to the car covered in whatever the hell explodes when you temporarily rip a hole in the universe (it smells like gasoline and lavender and something that, if Derek was more inclined towards whimsy, he might call stardust), and Derek asks without thinking.

They’ve been firmly friends for awhile now, past the alpha pack, the nogitsune, Kate, and everything else this goddamn town has thrown at them. It’s almost the end of the pack’s senior year, not including Derek, and next fall they’ll all be spread throughout the country. Lydia just got accepted into Yale; Allison, Erica and Boyd are all headed to NYU; Isaac got his act together and got into U of C. Stiles is waffling between MIT and Berkeley, although with Kira getting accepted to Berkeley too and Scott applying to Veterinary schools in the area, that decision’s probably more or less made. Derek is proud of them, all of them, but he’s spent most of the last few months avoiding the reality that they’ll all be around much less often, and all of a sudden it’s agitating, that he’s spent so much time with Stiles and he doesn’t know his name.

(And if he’s spent more than the last few months ignoring certain other feelings, and he wants a little bit of Stiles to hold onto, well, no one else is going to know.)

Stiles barks a hollow laugh. “Nope.”

Derek lifts his eyebrows, even though Stiles is in front of him in the dark. “Your name is ‘nope’?”

“Good one, big guy. ‘Nope’ as in we’re not doing this.” He can practically hear Stiles rolling his eyes.

“Not doing what?”

Stiles whirls around, plants his finger right against Derek’s chest as he stops suddenly, almost off-balance. “The whole—name thing. It shouldn’t even matter. It’s _Stiles_ as far as anyone who isn’t Scott or my dad is concerned—as far as Scott and my dad are concerned, too, at this point. Being _Stiles_ just saved all our asses. Drop it.”

Derek holds up his hands. “Alright.”

Stiles holds his gaze, nods slowly. It’s a weirdly intimate moment. His face is close in the dark, all Derek would have to do is lean forward…

“Good,” says Stiles, and he’s turning around, back towards the jeep.

“You know,” Derek says, after a few minutes of walking in silence, “I pity whoever asks about your middle name.”

This time when Stiles laughs, it’s loud and full.

***

The thing is, Derek meant what he said. If Stiles says it doesn’t matter, it shouldn’t matter. Derek is a respectful person who won’t force Stiles to talk about something that clearly makes him uncomfortable.

That doesn’t stop it from eating at him, though.

It’s a rampant curiosity that settles under his skin, an itch he doesn’t have a way to scratch. What could be so bad that Stiles—loud, proud, utterly unashamed _Stiles_ —is too embarrassed to tell anybody?

He breaks three months later and goes to Erica, which is his first mistake. It’s August and they’re all up at a cabin on a lake they’ve rented for a week. The air is thick with mosquitos and it’s too hot, but for all Derek hasn’t had a single quiet moment, it’s peaceful here.

Erica and him are the only two not in the water, lounging by the small dock reading while the rest of the pack fights over the only floating mat at the other end of the lake.

Derek puts down his book. “Erica,” he says, but doesn’t get any further than that.

“What,” she says, and when he doesn’t answer she rolls over on her side to look at him over huge opalescent sunglasses.

“Nevermind.”

“What is it?”

“It’s stupid.”    

She puts her hand on her arm. “I’m sure it’s not, Derek. C’mon, tell me.”    

He sighs. “It is. But it’s been driving me crazy for months. After that night where Stiles and I handled the witches... I just can’t stop thinking about it, even though I shouldn’t.”       

Erica looks like she’s holding her breath. “Thinking about what?”

The question spills out of him in a rush. “Do you know what Stiles’s name is?”

“ _What?_ ”

“His name. Do you—”

“I heard you the first time.” He hasn’t seen Erica look this unimpressed since Isaac threw her cashmere sweater in the dryer. She’s squeezing his arm so hard it hurts. “That’s your big dramatic confession? You want to know what his _name_ is?”

“Uh,” says Derek. “I’m curious?”

“You’re an idiot.” She’s up and walking away in a flash. Over her shoulder she says, “You might want to start thinking about more important things, Derek, like what it is you really want.”

“So you don’t know, then?” he calls after her, trying for sarcastic and landing closer to a whine. Erica flips him the bird without turning around.

He tries to go back to his book, but finds himself unable to focus on anything other than the fact that if he strains, he can pick out Stiles’s heartbeat across the lake.

***

When they get back, Derek puts in an application at the Sheriff’s department.

A week later he’s sitting across from the Sheriff, who’s shuffling through Derek’s admittedly sparse application while Derek tries not to fidget. Finally he sets it down with a sigh. “You know I like you, Derek, and we both know you’ve helped save this town more times than either of us can count. But you don’t have any prior experiences or any references—for anything, let alone police work.” He leans across his desk. “What is this all about anyway? Did Stiles talk you into this?”

“No,” says Derek, and it’s an effort to maintain eye contact. “But I want to help.”

The Sheriff’s eyes soften. “Alright, son. Let’s see how you do in the academy and go from there.”

***

He waits until September, after they throw a huge barbeque in the Stilinskis’ backyard and everyone in the pack is safely packed up and sent to college; if he ever sees the inside of another moving van again, it’ll be too soon. He doesn’t tell anyone, mostly because he feels like nothing’s going to come of it. Regardless, it’s exactly the distraction he needs, and it turns out how Derek does in the academy is _excellent_. Even on the written tests, which is what he was worried about—it’s not that he’s stupid, it’s just that he knows more about evading the law than he does about upholding it. He’s top of the class in everything, and he feels— _good,_ doing something that’s just for himself, and doing it well. He’s pretty sure this isn’t what Erica had in mind, but a week after he graduates, the Sheriff hands him a uniform and he’s officially a deputy—well, deputy-in-training—and he’s happy.

It’s a bit bittersweet when he gets back to the loft and it feels too empty, nothing to distract Derek for the first time since the pack left. _Left but not gone_ , he reminds himself, reaching out for the intangible feeling of _pack_ , and finding reassurance in the warmth that uncurls in his stomach in response.       

His phone rings, and either Stiles has exceedingly good timing or he’s a little less human than they’ve always thought.   

“Congratulations, asshole. I guess this is why you haven’t returned any of my texts.”

Or he’s the son of the Sheriff. Right.

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “I was going to call you—everyone. Soon.”

“You? Voluntarily using a phone? Yeah, right.”

“Stiles—”

Stiles snorts. “I’m joking, dude. Calm down. My dad told me when you applied, I think it’s great.”

He hesitates. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Stiles, “Derek Hale: werewolf cop.”

“ _No.”_

“Oh yeah. You should get business cards made up.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “How’s Berkeley going?”

“Don’t think a subject change is gonna get you out of this one, Derek Hale.” He starts singing, much to Derek’s horror. “ _Werewolf cop, werewolf cop, does whatever a—”_

“Stiles,” Derek groans, and he can’t help but smile when Stiles laughs into the phone. “Come on, tell me about school. Have you and Scott blown anything up yet?”

“Not yet, but there’s still hope. We did have a run-in with a phoenix though, and hoo-boy, J.K. Rowling owes me a sincere apology for making me believe those things are friendly.”

The look he gets from the Sheriff when he runs full-tilt into the station, ten minutes late for his first day because he stayed up talking to Stiles until four a.m., is totally worth it.

***

Everyone comes back for Thanksgiving, and they celebrate the whole weekend instead of just the day. The Sheriff hosts one dinner, Melissa another, and Derek a third, although his is something more akin to a smorgasbord-potluck hybrid. He’s been making an effort to keep in touch with all of them after that first call with Stiles, but they all have stories he hasn’t heard yet and the weekend is a blur of good food and great company.

He corners Boyd on the Saturday, volunteering both of them to chop more wood for the cozy fire Melissa’s got going.

“I don’t know why you need my help,” grumbles Boyd as Derek pulls him around the side of the house.

“I have a question,” says Derek, and tries not to wince at how shifty his voice sounds. The itch to know has been dulled in the past couple months, but the curiosity is still there, and seeing Stiles has brought it right back to the surface.

Boyd narrows his eyes immediately. “It’s not what I think it is, is it?”

“What,” says Derek slowly, “Do you think it is?”

“An incredibly stupid question you asked my girlfriend three months ago, that I still have to hear about?”

This time he can’t help the wince. “Uh.”

Boyd shakes his head. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. Chop the wood yourself, man.”

Derek spends twenty minutes longer than he needs to chopping wood, until Scott comes out, all friendly back-patting and helping him carry the wood into the house, and Derek feels the guilt rise up in a hot flush on the back of his neck. _It’s none of my business,_ he says to himself as he glances at Stiles while they set the table, and again over dinner, and all through _Home Alone_ , a McCall Thanksgiving movie tradition. _None of my business._

He keeps repeating it to himself over the next month, when Kira calls him for help on a history paper; when Lydia sends him an email that’s cheerful and terrifying in equal measure informing him she’s put him down as her reference for a work-study program that got interrupted by gargoyles killing her boss and destroying the office (he gives her a glowing reference that’s only a little stilted); all through his and Stiles’s weekly Saturday morning call. He distracts himself with work, and Christmas shopping, and the Sunday dinners with the Sheriff, Melissa, and Chris Argent he somehow got roped into, which Stiles finds hilarious.

Everyone comes back again for Christmas: Scott, Kira and Stiles picking up Isaac on their way back, and everyone else flying in. Everything is great for the eleven minutes it takes for it to come out that Lydia and Allison have recently broken up, and then extremely awkward for the forty-six hours it takes for them to get back together. When Derek’s not pulling extra hours on patrol (they’re always short over the holiday season, and he has the least seniority and the least family, although he knows there’s now several people who would kick his ass for saying so), he’s running errands or wrapping presents or baking cookies. Stiles refers to him as a Christmas elf twice in as many days and Derek retaliates by pulling his hood over his head and pulling the strings as tight as they can go and tying them off, leaving Stiles to squawk and try and to pull it off his head.

“No cookies for you,” says Derek, popping one in his mouth while Scott laughs so hard he starts wheezing and Stiles walks into a wall.

Everything is great. And, okay, it’s occurred to him that maybe his fixation on the whole name thing is really just a way to ignore his other, not-quite-platonic feelings, but he does what he does best and skirts the hell away from any emotional revelations he can’t come back from. For the first time in a long time, things are good as they are. All he has to do is keep going, as is.

So of course he breaks his promise to himself the last week of Christmas break. Twice, technically, although he doesn’t think he can be blamed for one of them.

Chris insists on hosting Christmas Eve dinner for reasons Derek’s unclear about. He shows up fifteen minutes early with a bottle of wine and caramelized yams, and Allison lights up when she answers the door.

“Oh, thank god,” she says, pulling the wine out of his hands and pushing him past Chris, who’s sitting in an armchair in the living room with a large tumbler of whiskey in hand and a terrifying expression on his face, and towards the kitchen.

The kitchen is so smoky Derek’s eyes water, and Lydia is buzzing around clearly trying to fix whatever damage Allison and Chris have inflicted on dinner.

“Derek’s here!” says Allison with fake-cheerfulness as she shoves him into the room before making a hurried retreat.

Lydia turns and throws him an apron and a turkey baster with a half-crazed look in her eyes. “She’s burnt the potatoes, Derek. The _potatoes._ ”

“I can hear you!” shouts Allison.

“Does it sound like I care right now, sweetheart?” Lydia fires back.

Despite their best efforts, by the time everyone else appears it’s clear the only things edible are Derek’s yams, Lydia’s garlic parmesan zucchini and the pumpkin pie Chris eventually admits is store-bought. They order pizza and the night devolves into several increasingly aggressive rounds of monopoly, and at some point Allison must win Lydia’s forgiveness because they crush everyone else almost every round.

Bankrupt yet again, Derek wanders into the kitchen for some eggnog (provided by Erica and Boyd and therefore only somewhat suspect) to find Stiles already there.

“Usually I’m pretty good at this game,” he says when he sees Derek, and gets out a second mug without being asked.

“Usually you’re pretty good at everything,” says Derek, and then immediately wishes the floor would swallow him whole.

Stiles just laughs as he pushes the mug into Derek’s hand, and they settle against the counter shoulder to shoulder, listening to the sweet sounds of Michael Bublé crooning carols and Isaac accusing Allison of cheating. Derek waits for Stiles to start chattering, usually an inevitability, but it never comes. Eventually, he turns his head to find Stiles looking at him. He arches an eyebrow only to have Stiles blush and look away.

He pushes off the counter and turns towards Stiles, but the question on his lips is cut off by Scott bursting into the kitchen.

“Stiles! Trivial pursuit, winner takes all! You have to be on my team!”

“Roger that, buddy,” says Stiles, all but racing out of the room.

Before Derek can puzzle that one out, Kira appears in the doorway with an exasperated look. “Seeing as my _boyfriend’s_ abandoned me, will you be on my team, Derek?”

Kira and Derek come in a very respectable second place, and Allison and Lydia win out once again, much to everyone’s outrage. (“How did she know where the 1924 Olympics were held?” Erica mutters, angrily packing up the board). Most of the pack helps clean up the general debris and then head home for the night, but Derek sticks around to help Allison, the two of them shooing Chris to bed. Derek washes dishes for food that never got to see the light of day and Allison dries.

“You and Kira gave us a run for our money,” Allison says. “I didn’t know you were such a history nerd.”

Derek finds himself laughing. “I have a BA in American history,” he says.

“Really?” Allison looks startled, almost. And like she regrets the question as soon as it’s out of her mouth.

“Really,” he confirms, not unkindly. “From NYU, actually.”

“Huh,” she says.

They continue in companionable silence for awhile, Derek’s thoughts straying to Stiles, and he’s asking the question before he can stop himself.

“Hey,” he says, “Weird question but, uh, you don’t happen to know what Stiles’s first name actually is, do you?”

Allison laughs. “Nope. I tried to get it out of Scott for ages when we were dating—mostly just because he wouldn’t tell me, you know? It was pretty much the only thing he wouldn’t tell me.” He hands her the last dish and starts draining the sink. “Why do you want to know?”

Derek shrugs, tries to make it look natural. “Just curious.”

Allison finishes drying the last dish and carefully puts it away. “Do you know why Lydia and I broke up?”

“No,” says Derek slowly, thrown.

“It was mostly a distance thing, and a stress thing,” she says. “But other than that, if we’re being honest? It was my fault. She was the one who always made the first move—asked me out, kissed me first. I guess I just got used to it—I always let her call or text first, and it wasn’t a big deal when we saw each other everyday, but when we didn’t—it came off like I didn’t care. One day she just got fed up and broke it off, and I didn’t understand why.” She pauses, tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “It was mostly miscommunication, obviously, once we got in the same room and talked about it we figured it out. But even though it should be an easy fix, it’s going to take me awhile to unlearn, you know? Making the first move instead of waiting?”

“Uh,” says Derek. “I’m glad you worked it out?”

Allison sighs, pats him gently on the arm. “Thanks for your help, Derek.”   

***

He works early on Christmas Day, a shift that should leave him plenty of time to make it to a late Christmas dinner with the rest of the pack. Except for the part where the couple of hitchhikers he’s writing tickets for turn out to be hunters, and he spends the next few hours in a haze of wolfsbane-ridden pain instead. Later, the only thing he remembers clearly is a loud crash and the look on Stiles’s face when he pulls him from the cage he’s been thrown into, all fierce determination. Derek’s glad he can’t get his mouth to work because otherwise he might say something stupid before he passes out in the back of the jeep.

He wakes up late on boxing day in a bed that’s not his and panics for a moment, claws coming out unbidden, before his senses catch up and the knowledge that he’s in Stiles’s room, Stiles’s _bed_ , settles over him. He stumbles downstairs to find the entire pack crammed in the Stilinskis’ living room, all pajama-clad and half way through the second _Die Hard_.

Despite being in a room full of werewolves, it’s Stiles who notices him first.

“Derek!” He bounds up from his space on the couch between his dad and Scott to hug the living daylights out of him, and it takes a moment for Derek’s brain to process the surprise and wrap his arms around Stiles in return.

“Are you feeling okay?” says Stiles, “The wolfsbane should all be out of your system, it wasn’t a super potent strand but there was a _lot_ of it.”

“I’m fine,” says Derek, his voice a little gruff. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

Stiles pulls back, throwing him a look that’s somewhere between exasperated and fond. “Anytime, big guy.”

Before he can step out of Stiles’s arms, Scott is throwing himself around both of them, and all of a sudden the rest of the pack is piling on in a group hug that ends with all of them sprawled on the floor while the Sheriff and Melissa smile fondly from the couch.

After it’s been firmly established that he is, in fact, fine, and that the hunters in question have been “dealt with” by Chris (he’s not sure he wants to know, honestly), the movie gets started up again. The Boxing Day Stilinski Die Hard Marathon is a tradition he’d been aware of but never experienced, and it consists mostly of overeating and quoting along in obnoxious accents. He ends up watching the rest of the movie with his head on Stiles’s stomach, and when he gets up to help himself to some leftover pancakes as they queue up _Die Hard With A Vengeance,_ Lydia follows him into the kitchen.

Derek gets two plates out of the cupboard, offers one to her wordlessly.

“No thanks.” Something about the way she says it—the not-quite-sincere politeness, the way she scrunches her nose, reminds him of the Lydia he first met, and something in him tenses. He starts piling pancakes onto his plate as fast as possible.

“I heard,” says Lydia, quietly but with precision, “That you were going around asking certain questions.”

Derek drops his plate on the counter; it’s only a couple inches away but it clatters loudly.

“Everything okay in there?” calls the Sheriff over the opening of the movie.

“Yes!” Derek shouts back, voice only a little strangled. Lydia is smiling. It’s a little terrifying.

Lydia hands him the syrup. “I know you care about Stiles. Probably more than you’d like to admit. And I’m sure you’re just curious. Like I was.”

Derek looks at her, startled. “So you know?”

“Of course I know.” Her expression tacks on _you idiot_. “And what I’m saying is: stop asking.”

Derek nods and starts liberally applying syrup to his pancakes, mostly to avoid further eye contact.

“Derek.” She waits until he looks up. “I’m not telling you to stop caring about him. At all. I’m just saying… stay away from this. I can guarantee I’m doing you a favour.”

“Okay,” he says seriously, and she seems to understand because she smiles softly.

“Come on,” she says, tugging on his arm. “We’re missing the movie.”

***

Derek insists on working New Year’s Eve, out on calls until way past midnight. He ignores his phone until he gets home, just past two, scrolling through the “happy new year” texts until he gets to Stiles’s, smiles when he sees it’s just a wall of fireworks emojis.

Two days later he helps Kira, Scott, Stiles and Isaac cram all their stuff back into the jeep, and Stiles hugs him before he gets in.

“Feel free not to wait six weeks to call me this time,” he says.

“You could try calling first for once, asshole!” shouts Stiles, but he’s grinning, and when they pull out onto the street he honks the horn until they’re out of sight.

***

It’s late March when the mists start rolling in, thick in the early morning and clinging to town all day, suffocating. It makes him uneasy, leaves him constantly on edge. Parrish laughs and calls him superstitious.

The disappearances start a week later. Two women and a man, no correlation in age, race, career or anything else they can think of, in just under two weeks. He spends more time canvassing the woods than he does in his own home, first with the rest of the deputies and then long hours after on his own in the dark, but he can’t find a trace of them. The Sheriff’s mouth is a grim line every time Derek returns with nothing to show for it. There’s a report of a man in green seen with one of the missing girls shortly before she disappeared, but they don’t even have enough details for a sketch. He can’t find anything in the bestiary that fits, and while Deaton confirms the mist’s unnatural, clearly as instinctively unsettled by it as Derek is, he says he’s never seen anything quite like this.

A third girl disappears, a high school student this time, and Derek calls Stiles.

“I’m sorry,” he says on the phone after he explains. “I know you have exams coming up—”

“Is that why you didn’t call me sooner?” demands Stiles. “I _knew_ something was going on, you and dad have both sounded stressed out. How many times have I told everyone, I’m the first call when there’s a dead body—”

“There’s no bodies,” says Derek sharply, “And you’re at college. You’re supposed to being doing normal college things.”

Stiles makes a _pfft_ noise. “I gave up on normal about a month into sophomore year, buddy. Look, I’ll do some research and call you tomorrow. But next time, call me right away, okay?”

Before Derek can answer there’s a loud crash and Stiles saying “Oh, _shit—_ ” before the call disconnects.

 _Stiles?_ Derek texts him, and he’s halfway downstairs and dialling Scott before Stiles replies, _Sorry I just walked into my econ prof and spilled his coffee all over him!!!!!_ and Derek can breathe again.

He wakes early the next morning with the uneasiness that’s been hanging over him the past month quadrupled, tension hard in his stomach like a pit. He’s barely out of bed when Parrish calls him, and he just stares at the phone in his hand for a moment before answering.

“We found Tracy Ellis,” says Parrish, and for a split second Derek’s engulfed in sharp relief, until: “In the Sheriff’s car, on the side of the road. The door’s almost been torn of the frame and—he’s not here.”

The drive to the woods—because of _course_ it’s by the woods—is a blur. It’s on the other side of town, away from Hale property. Derek has to pull over 200ft away, his car the last in a long line of vehicles along the side of the road. The Sheriff’s car is a disaster, it looks like something pulled the door open with huge, dull teeth. There’s a half dozen police cars pulled up around it, lights flashing. Half the department is there, Parrish giving them instructions two or three at a time, looking determined and reeking of anxiety. By the sound of it, the other half is already well into the woods, searching. He catches the scent of something familiar and turns—blood. The Sheriff’s, a small trail of it leading into the forest. It should make his stomach turn but instead it’s a relief; there’s not a lot of it, but it’s more than Derek’s had to go on with anyone else, it might just be enough of a trail to follow.

Parrish catches his eye when he sees him, finishes whatever he’s saying and comes over to him.

“Last time anyone saw him?” says Derek immediately.

“Just over seven hours ago. We’ve got a group out searching already.”

“And the girl?”

“Hypothermia, soaked to the bone but otherwise fine. She’s not talking, though.” Parrish pauses, glances towards the trees. “Anything you can do?”

Derek nods, grateful, not for the first time, that Parrish knows, that he won’t have to find an excuse to slip into the woods. “I think so.”

“Go,” says Parrish, and Derek doesn’t need to be told twice.

He waits until he’s out deeper than the rest of the deputies before he shifts, and then he’s on all fours running, focused on nothing but the scent he’s following. There’s something underlying the blood that he swears he recognizes, but it’s so faint he can’t figure out what it is—he doubts he even would have registered it if it was on it’s own.

He’s not sure how long he runs—at least a couple of hours—until eventually something on the edge of his awareness pricks and he slows to a stop. He’s on the far edge of a grove of trees outside a small clearing, and he realizes with relief that what caught his attention was two heartbeats—one undoubtedly the Sheriff’s. The other is slower and stronger, the rhythm unlike anything he’s ever heard. He has to pull back the growl that rises in the back of his throat in response. He has no idea what the hell’s in there, but it’s _unnatural_.

He creeps through the grove with carefully placed footfalls and slow movements. He’s never been this deep in this side of the woods, and he still can’t get a grip on what whatever’s in there _is_. The smell under the blood, the one he’s been missing this whole time, is stronger here, but he can’t put a name to it…

Derek pauses when he reaches the opening of the clearing, hidden by a thick oak tree and the undergrowth.

There’s a pool in the clearing, and the Sheriff is lying unconscious by the edge. There’s blood on his temple and his lower right leg—it looks like something dragged him here. By the teeth. He can still hear that heartbeat, unnervingly slow and loud, but it—seems to be coming from the water. The pool is clear and still, and Derek finds himself stepping around the tree, inching closer. It’s incredibly deep, deeper than any pool of water in a Californian forest has any right to be. He walks toward the edge, and part of him is screaming that this is wrong, to grab the Sheriff and run, but he’s entranced by the complete stillness of the water, like he could walk right across it. He gets right to the edge, and he’s about to do just that, step on it or in it and drop off the face of the Earth, who _cares_ , it looks so _peaceful—_

There’s something white at bottom of the impossibly deep pool. Something human eyes wouldn’t catch. Bones, he realizes, stomach turning. Human bones, dozens of them picked completely clean, and suddenly he’s reeling away from the water and turning towards the Sheriff, whatever hold it had over him broken.

He hasn’t taken more than two steps when the water explodes with a force that knocks him over and soaks him. Something black, huge, and hooved lands on the bank next to him, and the smell from the woods hits him, overwhelming, and now he can place it: _damp._ He’s scrambling to his feet as the thing turns towards him, fiercely glad he’s between it and the Sheriff. It looks almost like an extremely large horse: its coat is deep sea green instead of black, its mane is twisted with weeds, and it’s eyes are glowing with monstrous coldness. The pieces fall together in Derek’s head as he shifts, old legends and folktales.

“ _Kelpie_ ,” he growls, eyes flashing as the beast snorts in acknowledgment.

It charges him, and when he goes to grab it his hands slide right off its hide, too wet to find purchase. It bowls him over onto his back, rearing up on its hind legs over him and he barely has time to roll away before its hooves crash down where he was a moment before. He’s on his knees, pushing up to stand but before he can the kelpie sinks its teeth into his leg painfully and drags him towards the pool.

He roars, sinking his claws into the ground futilely, barely slowing it down. Just as he hears it hit the water his hand skims over a rock the size of his fist in the dirt, and he pulls it loose, contorting sideways and smashing it against the kelpie’s head with everything he has. It cries out in pain, freeing his leg, and he scrambles away from the pool. Its back over him before he can find purchase to pull himself up, on his ass as it rears over him with a bone-chilling shriek.

His feet find purchase just as it comes down, and he rises up to meet it, claws first. He smells the blood almost before he feels it, and the kelpie comes crashing down on top of him, weight crushing. He shoves at it, but he can’t get any leverage. He’s about a hairsbreadth from laughing hysterically; he won, and it’s still going to kill him.

Suddenly the weight is shifting, not off of him exactly but—smaller. He pushes at it and it rolls off easily, and when he sits up he sees that it’s shifted to a man, surprisingly handsome and dressed in ripped and bloodied green clothes.

Derek takes a second to just breathe: he’s alive, the Sheriff is alive, this thing is dead, finally. His leg still hurts like hell—it doesn’t seem to be healing—but he can deal with that, all things considered.

He jumps when the kelpie shifts, apparently not dead, to press its hands futilely against the wounds on its stomach. It laughs wetly when it sees his expression.

“Killed by a werewolf,” it huffs, and its voice is like silk. “My own fault, really; never could just drag people all the way into the water, no, I had to _call_ them…”

“Shut up,” says Derek, exhausted. “You killed three people—at least three people—you don’t get to monologue.”

He makes his way slowly towards the Sheriff, lifting him carefully over his back. He’s still unconscious, but he looks like he’ll be okay. By the time he turns around, the kelpie has shifted back into a horse, unmoving. Derek starts walking and doesn’t look back.

He doesn’t know how long it takes him to get them back. A long time. But there’s light when they breach the edge of the forest, and he gratefully collapses as soon as someone takes the Sheriff’s weight from him.

***

He wakes in the back room at Deaton’s, sprawled on one of the metal gurneys, and all he can think is _not again_. He rolls onto his side and sits up, a little sore but otherwise okay—his leg seems to have healed up finally. He’s been dressed in fresh, cozy clothes, and he only wobbles for a second when he stands before he finds his balance, which, frankly, feels like an accomplishment.

Deaton comes through the door with a flourish. “Mr. Hale. You’re up.”

“Is the Sheriff okay?” he asks in a rush.

“He’s fine,” Deaton says soothingly. “He woke up an hour ago. His injuries didn’t even require surgery.”

All the tension leaves Derek’s body, and he scrubs his hands over his face.

“That was a brave thing you did,” says Deaton, and he knows Derek well enough to say it while he’s looking at a chart so Derek doesn’t have to meet his eyes.

“You’ve been asleep for almost twenty-four hours,” Deaton continues. “Something in the kelpie’s saliva—it stopped your system from healing as fast as it normally does. And general exhaustion. All fine now, of course,” he finishes, eyeing Derek’s leg.

Derek narrows his eyes. “How do you know it was a kelpie?”

Deaton levels a look at him. “Stiles figured it out. Apparently, he spent half an hour trying to call you, and when that failed, he called the station.”

“Fuck,” says Derek. He left his phone in the car. He didn’t even call Stiles to tell him his dad was _missing._ He plants his face firmly in his hands. He’s so going to be subjected to another thirty minute lecture to the tune of _always have your phone on you and charged, Derek; no, one out of two does not count!_

“If you’re feeling better, I have been told to relay the message that he’s at the hospital when you’re up.”

Derek jerks his face up and out of his hands to look at Deaton. “He’s _here?”_

Deaton hums in the affirmative. “He drove straight up.”

Of course he did. Hell or high water wouldn’t keep Stiles from his dad.

“Where are my keys?” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound as frantic as he feels. “Wait, is my car still by the woods?”

“Scott drove it up last night,” Deaton says. He hands him a small plastic container containing his wallet and keys. “I threw out your uniform, I’m afraid,” he continues. “It wouldn’t dry.”

Derek tries not to rush out of the vet’s office too obviously, and probably fails. He doesn’t even bother trying not to speed to the hospital. It’s Melissa at the desk when he rushes up, and before he can even open his mouth she’s saying, “Room 314, Derek.”

He fidgets in the elevator and tries to slow his racing heart. The Sheriff is fine, everyone is fine, why is he so goddamn nervous—

The elevator door chimes as it opens, and his eyes instantly find Stiles at the end of the hall, prodding listlessly at the vending machine. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week, his shirt is almost definitely inside out, and Derek is almost bowled over by how beautiful he is.

His feet carry him almost all the way down the hall before Stiles notices him, turning away from the vending machine after kicking it halfheartedly. Stiles’s tired face brightens into a wide grin that he finds himself returning in full force, and they stand a foot apart, grinning like idiots.

“Hey,” says Stiles, and then he’s flinging himself at Derek, arms tight around him, and Derek can’t resist burying his face in the crook of his shoulder. It’s been three months since he’s seen Stiles in person, he realizes.

He lets Stiles pull away first. “Hi,” Derek says back. “Your dad’s okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles confirms. “Concussion, and he’ll have to be off that leg for a couple weeks, but otherwise fine. They want to keep him one more night. He’s sleeping right now.” Stiles looks at him seriously. “Derek. Thank you.”

There’s something about the intensity of his gaze that leaves Derek incapable of shrugging off his thanks or changing the subject. “Anytime,” he says instead, echoing Stiles’s words from months earlier, hoping Stiles gets it. If the quirk of his lips is anything to go by, he does.

“You okay?” Stiles says, looking Derek up and down in a way that gives Derek the impression he’s checking for errant bleeding. “Deaton said your leg wasn’t healing as fast as it should.”

This time he has no trouble waving him off. “I’m fine.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, smacks his arm. “You being unconscious for twenty-four hours? Not what I’d call ‘fine.’”

Derek rolls his eyes right back, and Stiles’s stomach rumbles loudly. “C’mon,” says Derek, throwing an arm over Stiles’s shoulder, surprisingly himself. “Let’s go get you something to eat.”

Stiles huffs, but before he can protest Derek says, “I saw you fight the vending machine and lose,” and he lets Derek steer him towards the cafeteria in peace.

They eat together in the cafeteria, both of them wolfing down a truly impressive amount of sandwiches, much to the obvious disgust of the man at the table next to them. In-between eating they trade versions of events: Stiles tells him about finding a tiny entry on kelpies in one of the bestiaries Kira’s mom had loaned him and putting it together; trying to call Derek and getting his voicemail; calling his dad and getting an endless beeping; calling the station and passing the information he had onto Parrish, before throwing himself into the jeep and only pausing long enough to let Scott throw himself in right after him.

“I may,” admits Stiles around a mouthful of ham and cheese, “Have broken some traffic laws.”

When it’s Derek’s turn, he doesn’t bother trying to play it down—Stiles will see right through him—just tells him the truth in steady, measured words. He tells him about the pool, the bones, the unnaturalness of the thing, and Stiles shudders, and then bumps their feet together under the table companionably.

“Well, I think that makes the top three ‘most terrifying’ list,” says Stiles.

“Definitely,” says Derek, and it comes out more grim than intended, so he steals Stiles’s jello just to watch him squawk and try to get it back.

Scott comes up and joins them, insists on pulling Derek to his feet and giving him a back-slapping hug.

“Your dad’s up,” says Scott to Stiles when he pulls away, and Stiles shoots to his feet.

Derek fills Scott in on the way down, both of them following behind Stiles. He sticks his head in to see the Sheriff in one piece for himself and gets pulled into the room for twenty minutes, the Sheriff thanking him and calling him _son_ and generally making Derek’s throat tight.

“I’ll let you rest,” he says eventually, excusing himself. “Feel better, Sheriff.”

“I’ll see you Monday,” the Sheriff says, and Derek tries not to laugh at the sharp look Stiles throws him.

Stiles and Scott both hug him again on the way out, and when Stiles pulls back there’s a heavy pause between them before Stiles punches him in the shoulder and says, “See ya.”      

***

He’s restless even thinking about going home to the empty loft, so Derek drives to the other side of the woods, spends a handful of hours trying to find the kelpie’s pool—maybe they can identify the bones—but he can’t find its small clearing anywhere. When it starts to rain he gives in and heads home.

He’s out of the shower and in fresh clothes, debating the merits of ordering Chinese versus the leftover lasagna that’s been stagnating in his fridge when there’s a knock on the door.

It’s Stiles, damp from the rain and determination written all over his face.

“Stiles,” he starts, but the rest of the words get stuck somewhere between his head and his throat. He steps back automatically to let Stiles inside the loft, but Stiles just follows him directly, pressing right into his space. He smells like he always does under the rain: copper and motor oil, the faint chemical tinge of his adderall, ink.

“What are you doing here?” Derek finally manages to say.

“You almost died,” says Stiles. “Twice in the last couple months, actually,” and Derek’s opening his mouth to tell him _that’s nothing new_ , but Stiles is throwing his hand out, telling Derek _wait,_ and he does, watches while Stiles struggles to find the words he’s looking for and fails, face collapsing in on itself.

“You almost _died_ , Derek,” he repeats, finally, his hand finding Derek’s cheek, “You almost—and I wouldn’t have—I didn’t—”

And Derek can’t help it: it feels like the most natural thing in the world to cup his hand around the back of Stiles’s neck and lean forward to catch his lips with his own. He catches Stiles’s gasp in his mouth, sets his other hand lightly on his waist as Stiles melts into him, free arm coming to wrap around Derek’s neck and kissing him back, as fierce in this as he is in everything else.

It’s long moments before they pull away; Derek leaning back and resting his forehead against Stiles’s, just breathing.

“I’m in love with you,” says Stiles, and then immediately blushes and groans, dragging the hand that’s not still looped around Derek’s neck to cover his face.

Derek laughs without giving his mouth permission to do so—it seems there’s a whole list of things his body does around Stiles involuntarily—and before Stiles can think the worst, Derek’s saying: “I love you too—I, uh, have for at least a year.”

Stiles drops his hand from his mouth to hit Derek playfully in the chest with it instead. “Well then. Why didn’t you say anything?” He’s grinning, and it might be the best thing Derek’s ever seen. He’s not sure who starts the kissing back up but he ends up backing Stiles against the door, his hands threading through Stiles’s hair, and Stiles’s hands creeping under Derek’s shirt and running up his back.

It’s Stiles who pulls away this time, looking flushed and regretful. He bumps Derek’s nose affectionately with his own. “I can’t stay. I had to come see you, but my dad—”

“Of course,” says Derek immediately, unwinding himself from Stiles. He hesitates, suddenly unsure. “I’ll call you?”

“Damn straight you will,” says Stiles. It takes him another good five minutes to get out the door. Afterwards, Derek leans against it, incapable of not grinning goofily as he listens to Stiles’s heartbeat as he jogs down the stairs.

                                                                                                                  ***  
Stiles makes Scott swing by Derek’s apartment the next morning, after they get his dad settled at home and before they drive off; Stiles has an exam at four, he’s letting Scott drive his precious jeep so he can study in the passenger seat on the way up. Derek opens the door in his pajamas and is thoroughly surprised and just as thoroughly kissed before Stiles runs off.

“Good luck!” Derek calls down the hall to him, and when Stiles turns to grin and wave he nearly falls down the stairs. _I’m dating an idiot_ , Derek thinks fondly.

Derek gets the play-by-play of how the drive up and the exam went when Stiles calls that evening, and their weekly calls become nightly calls for the last two weeks he’s on campus, even though, as Derek keeps pointing out, he should really be studying.

Derek worries about telling the Sheriff he’s dating Stiles, but when he goes to check in on him the next day (acceptable only because he comes with food in hand), the Sheriff takes one look at his nervous face and takes pity on him.

“Werewolves he can keep a secret for a year,” he says, “But stuff like this? Out in the first two minutes.” He claps a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “It’s about time, kid.”

“ _What?_ ”

The Sheriff just smiles. “Is that lasagna?”

The pack trickles back into town for the summer and apparently Stiles really can’t keep a secret, because Erica, Boyd and Allison poke fun at him for a full three days. Stiles looks incredibly guilty when he rolls up with Scott, Kira, and Isaac, and it’s appallingly endearing.

“You don’t mind, then?” Stiles asks quietly. They’re cleaning up after an impromptu pizza party at Derek’s loft, the last two standing.

Derek makes a questioning noise as he exams the carpet where Isaac dropped a full pizza, cheese side down. Maybe he can put a footstool over it or something.

Stiles makes a frustrated noise. “That I told everyone. About us,” he adds.

“Of course not,” says Derek. He lifts a brow, goes to stand in front of Stiles. “Is there something to mind?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “No.”

“I don’t know,” says Derek, trying and failing to keep a straight face. “Maybe you told everyone embarrassing things about me.”

“Oh, that’ll happen, guaranteed. I just don’t have any embarrassing things to tell them. Yet.”

“You know,” he says, hand fitting around Stiles’s waist. “We should really start fixing that.”

“I think,” says Stiles, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck, “This is already shaping up to be the best summer ever.”

***       

By the time he finally gets his answer, Derek’s completely forgotten about it.

It’s late August, they’ve been dating almost four months and Stiles has been half-living at his apartment (next summer he’d like to see if he can turn that into just _living_ ), and Derek has never been happier. It’s an ordinary afternoon; they’re curled up on the couch watching _Scrubs_ reruns, even though it’s too hot to really be cuddling, and when the pizza man rings the doorbell they have the usual squabble over who’ll get up to answer the door. For once Derek wins out, and Stiles huffs his way across the room.

“Derek,” Stiles calls from the door, his hand outstretched, “Toss me my wallet.”

He roots through Stiles’s bag lazily, gets up to deliver it to him by hand instead of risking smacking him in the head (again).

“Thanks, babe,” says Stiles in an exaggerated voice, pulling cash out his wallet and handing it back to Derek, who rolls his eyes.

He’s flipping it closed as he’s walking back to the couch when something catches his eye, and before he can think better of it he’s pulling out the card that’s sticking out of one of the back slots haphazardly. He flips it over to see what it is. And stares.

It’s Stiles’s drivers license. It’s mostly normal—the Stiles in the photo looks like he’s forcibly holding back a smile—except for the name. _Stilinski Stilinski._

He’s still staring at it when Stiles shuts the door and turns to him holding the pizza.

“What,” says Stiles, voice gone quiet and intense, “The hell are you doing?”

Derek pries his eyes away from where they’re glued to the name on Stiles’s license. And instead of doing what he should and immediately apologizing, what comes out when he opens his mouth is: “Is this fake?”

Stiles bristles. “Give it back.” It sounds like he has to physically push the words past his clenched teeth. It’s might be the most furious Derek’s ever seen him—that’s saying something—and it snaps him right out of the daze he’s in.

He shoves the card back into the wallet, passes it back to Stiles, whose hands are shaking. He drops the pizza on the coffee table and starts packing up his bag silently. _Fuck._

“Stiles, I—I’m sorry. It was sticking out of the back, I didn’t think—”

Stiles rounds on him, lightning fast. “You think I don’t know?” He hisses, right up in Derek’s face. “That you’ve been asking people?”

Derek doesn’t know what his face looks like right now—like a deer caught in fucking headlights, probably—but it makes Stiles laugh coldly.

“I wasn’t—” Derek starts. “That was before.” He’s never understood this _thing_ Stiles has about his name (although, if that _is_ his real name—he might get it a little bit now), but apparently he should have taken the advice of everyone he knows and dropped it, because it’s _bad_.

“Which is why I didn’t bring it up!” Stiles shouts, hands waving. “And I know you were probably just curious! It’s not like this doesn’t happen with everyone! But—” He cuts off, grits his teeth again, looking anywhere but Derek.

“I’m sorry,” Derek tries again, voice gentle, “I shouldn’t have done that, any of that. And,” he hesitates, unsure if this is the right thing to say, if there _is_ a right thing to say, “If you don’t want to talk about it again, ever, we won’t.”

Stiles stays still for so long, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the floor, that it starts making Derek nervous. “Stiles?”

Stiles’s eyes snap up to meet his. “No. Fuck this,” he spits, grabbing his bag and turning on his heel. He’s out of the apartment before Derek can form a coherent thought, feet thundering down the stairs.

Derek stays in the loft for almost an hour, replaying their fight over and over and generally feeling sorry for himself before he echoes Stiles’s _fuck this_ , throws on his jacket and drives over to the Stilinskis’.

These have been the best four months he’s had in a long time and damn him if he’s going to let Stiles go without a fight.

He’s so caught up in his own head when he knocks on the door that the Sheriff being the one to answer throws him off.

“I—uh—”

“You just missed him,” says the Sheriff, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Do you, uh, have any idea where he went?”

The Sheriff raises his eyebrows. “Funny, I thought he would have told you that. He just ran in, grabbed some stuff, said he was going on a road trip with Scott, and then ran off again.”

Derek is pretty sure he physically deflates a little. “Oh. Thanks,” he adds belatedly, turning to leave.

“Son?” He turns back to see the Sheriff opening the door wider. “Why don’t you come on in.”

***

The Sheriff listens patiently as the story spills out of Derek in fragments. When he’s done, the Sheriff scrubs a hand over his face and says, “Well, shit.”

Derek jerks in surprise as the Sheriff levels a sympathetic look at him, head propped on his hand. “It’s a Stilinski family tradition. Stiles has always hated it.”

“Wait,” says Derek, suddenly aware he has no idea what the Sheriff’s first name is, “Does that mean—”

The look he gets in response makes him shut up mid-sentence; now he knows where Stiles gets it.

“Why doesn’t he just go by his middle name?”

  
“Claudia picked it—it’s a traditional Polish name. It’s a real mouthful; he couldn’t pronounce it as a kid. He started demanding to be called ‘Stiles’ somewhere around the first grade, and it just stuck.” He sighs. “The last time someone found out, I couldn’t get him to go to school for a week.”

“Lydia?” Derek guesses.

The Sheriff nods, frowns. “I’m still not sure how she figured it out.” He reaches over and claps Derek on the shoulder. “Look, I know my kid. However mad he is about this? It doesn’t come close to matching how crazy about you he is. Give it a little time. And then be prepared to apologize. A lot.”

“Yes, sir,” says Derek, feeling the flush run all the way down his neck.

***

It’s a week before Stiles comes back. His phone goes straight to voicemail every time Derek calls, and he doesn’t respond to texts. Derek manages to only leave three awkward voicemails; he counts it a win.

He gets ahold of Scott once, on the second day, who only gets out, “Hey, Derek—oh, _shit—_ ” before the call disconnects. He’d be concerned, but he’s pretty sure Stiles knocked the phone out of Scott’s hand. The Sheriff confirms he’s heard from them, so they must be okay.

Derek focusses on work as much as he can during the day, and then sulks in his apartment at night. On the sixth night, Erica, Boyd, and Isaac ambush him on his way out of work, drag him out for Italian and bowling. He’d feel guilty having fun while Stiles is off doing god-knows-what and mad at him but bowling shoes, he thinks, are a punishment in their own right.

He has the next day off, spends the morning absently reading and studiously ignoring how quiet the loft is. It’s a testament to how inwardly distracted he is that Stiles manages to pull up, park, climb up the stairs and unlock Derek’s front door without detection. As such, Derek jumps about a foot and sloshes coffee over himself when Stiles bangs his front door open.

“Stiles,” he says, trying to get to his feet while he flicks coffee off his arms. Werewolf reflexes are apparently no match for Stiles, who’s striding across the apartment and shoving a piece of paper in Derek’s face before Derek can even get a good luck at him.

“Suck it!” yells Stiles. He doesn’t seem angry—he sounds jubilant, triumphant.

“What—” Derek shoves the paper aside. “Stiles, it’s been a week. Where the hell have you been?”

“Unimportant,” says Stiles. He tugs on Derek’s arm, trying to pull the paper back in front of his face. “Look at it—you’re not even looking, Derek!”

Derek uses his free arm to make Stiles stop waving his occupied one around so he can see what the hell it is he’s holding.

It’s a birth certificate. _Stiles Stilinski_ , it reads.

Derek’s eyes flick up to Stiles, who’s grinning like he won a marathon in record time. It might be a terrible idea but he can’t help it, the next words out of his mouth are: “Is this fake?”

The grin drops and Derek gets a quick glimpse of Stiles’s _are you fucking kidding me_ look before Stiles uses both hands to start whacking him on the head. Derek ducks away, laughing despite himself, catches one of Stiles’s hands and brings it to his lips in apology. Stiles rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too widely for Derek to take it seriously.

“How the hell did you do this?” Derek says. “This should’ve taken—months, probably.”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”

Derek arches an eyebrow. “Is it legal?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “What would be the point if it wasn’t?”

“You’re right,” says Derek. “I don’t want to know.”

He drops the birth certificate gently onto the coffee table, draws Stiles into his space by the hand until he’s close enough that Derek can press his free hand tentatively to his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s fine,” says Stiles, his hands finding Derek’s hips. “I may have— _overreacted_ , a little. I’ve always been, uh, embarrassed about it.” He laughs but it’s not quite genuine. “As a kid I was terrified someone would find out, that everyone at school would make fun of me, or whatever.”

“But Scott found out,” says Derek, “And Lydia.”

“Just Lydia, actually. I told Scott myself, when we were kids. Best friends don’t keep secrets.” He frowns. “I’m still not sure how Lydia found out, but she said it was so terrible she’d never tell anyone else. You’re the only one who’s found out by accident.”

“I shouldn’t have—”

Stiles cuts him off with a kiss, and it’s like all the tension melts from his bones.

“I should have done this years ago,” says Stiles when they finally break apart.

“You’re happy?” Derek murmurs.

“Yeah,” says Stiles. “I really am.”

***

Years later, after Stiles has graduated with honours, after they’ve bought a house, after Derek proposes and Stiles says _yes_ , after they get married in a quiet ceremony in the preserve, after they go on their honeymoon and come back, Stiles comes bounding into their living room and shoves a piece of paper in Derek’s face.

“Look!” he crows.

“I will if you would hold still,” Derek grumbles, putting down his book, but it sounds fond even to his own ears. He catches Stiles’s flailing arm, holds him still so he can see.

It’s their marriage license. _Derek and_ _Stiles Hale._

It shouldn't hit him like this, Stiles had gotten it approved months ago, done it the normal way this time (Derek still doesn’t know exactly how he acquired the birth certificate). Stiles has been referring to himself as a _Hale_ since the wedding, but seeing it on paper spreads warmth through his veins. He pulls Stiles down to sprawl on top of him on the couch.

“No second thoughts?” he says. “About not being a Stilinski anymore,” he adds, when Stiles pushes himself onto his elbows and looks ready to launch into a half-hour speech about exactly how much he loves being married to Derek.

“Oh,” says Stiles, relaxing. “No. It’s not a bad name—it’s my dad’s name, after all—but I think I’ve had enough of it for one lifetime. This feels right.”

“Yeah,” says Derek, running a hand through Stiles’s hair. “It does.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at my [tumblr](http://todayisbrightlywoven.tumblr.com/)


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